Well. Why, well said; and in this do not you only pledge your mistress's health, but all the women's in the world.
Fee. So: now this little cup to wrath, because he and I are strangers.
Tear. Brave boy! damn me, he shall be a roarer.
Fee. Damn me, I will be a roarer, or't shall cost me a fall.
Bots. The next place that falls, pray, let him have it.
Fee. Well, I have two of my healths to drink yet—lechery and drunkenness, which even shall go together.
Well. Why, how now, my lord, a moralist?
Bots. Damn me, art thou a lord? what virtues hast thou?
Fee. Virtues? enough to keep e'er a damn-me company in England: methinks you should think it virtue enough to be a lord.